


Studio 54

by gallifreyburning



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU, Doctor Who AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:29:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, Rose as a cocktail waitress as the Doctor as a businessman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Studio 54

Studio 54, celebrities and high-powered Wall Street types and a woman named Rose Tyler who works as a cocktail waitress, and a man named the Doctor who’s come over from London on business. 

He isn’t leering at her like the other men in the club; he doesn’t swat her ass or call her ”sweetie." When he leaves she finds an enormous tip on the table, except it’s in pounds. She stands there in the club with the music thumping around her, staring at the bills, thinking about how much she misses home. She turns around trying to catch a glimpse of the bloke with the pinstriped suit and the brown hair, hoping maybe he’s gone onto the dance floor instead of left the club. But he’s gone. 

Rose goes home and normally she crashes – falls fast asleep, but tonight she lays awake and thinks about that bloke, thinks about home and London and all the things she didn’t realize she was missing so much, and how she should’ve asked for that bloke’s number. 

When she comes in for her shift two nights later he’s there again. He lights up when he sees her, grinning and ordering a succession of club sodas over the course of her shift. As soon as she’s off he asks her to dance.

He isn’t dressed like anyone else in the club – more like a banker from the ’50s, pinstripes and short collar. For some reason, even though it’s outdated, it works on him. His tie is loose, the first few buttons undone on his shirt. His hair, which is shaggy and had been hanging down over his eyes, has gotten increasingly mussed as the evening has gone on; every time Rose walked by his table, brought him another club soda, they’d chatted. And when she’d walked away, he’d shoved his fingers into that wild mess of hair, tugged on it thoughtfully as he watched her navigate the crowd with her tray and drinks. 

A few other women sidled up to him over the course of the evening, brought pills and drinks and candy-pink tongues, and he brushed them all off, waited for Rose to bring him another club soda instead.

Normally by this time of night, Rose’s feet are killing her. The heels they require for the waitress uniform are four inch platforms. But following the bloke onto the dance floor, her feet don’t hurt at all, Rose is practically floating. Holding her hand, fingers linked between hers, he leads her into the center of the throng of dancers. 

“Heart of Glass” is thumping through the speakers, and as soon as he turns around to face her, Rose grins at him and starts to move. One hand still holding his, her hips sway, her feet rock left-right, her mouth moving to the words and her body undulating to the rhythm.

He stares at her for a moment, his brown eyes wide. Then he grins back and starts to move, too.

It’s all Rose can do not to laugh.

He obviously has no idea what he’s doing. His feet shuffle erratically, his hips are stiff and hardly moving, his other arm stuck straight out as he wiggles enthusiastically.

For some reason, it’s incredibly endearing. Guileless and unselfconscious and endearing.

Rose is beaming, suppressing giggles, surveying him from head to foot. He’s doing the same, watching her as she moves, scooting closer by millimeters. 

“Heart of Glass” ends, and the Stones’ “Miss You” starts up. Rose seizes the opportunity, closes the distance between them with a single step. Her hands slide under the edge of his pinstriped jacket, rest at the top of his hipbones.

He stares down at her, his smile fading into something breathless and wanting. He’s warm, he smells like cologne and cigarette smoke and sweat, and it’s intoxicating. His face is so close, tipped toward her, brown eyes filling her vision.

“Like this,” Rose whispers. Her body moves against his, hands guiding his hips in a smooth motion. He nearly stumbles, but she holds him steady, rocks back and forth with him a few more times until he seems to catch on. His midsection slowly loosens up, his feet shuffling along with the rhythm, thighs bumping hers.

The Doctor’s hands cup each side of her waist, and now that he’s not fumbling to find the rhythm anymore, now that his body is loose, Rose slides her arms up to his shoulders. Neither of them is grinning; there’s something more serious in the small space between them, gazes locked and skin flushed hot.

The lights flare rainbow colors across the dance floor, the song changes, but neither of them steps back or loosens grip. The way his fingers tighten against her dress, it’s like a challenge and a question all at the same time. His gaze falls to her mouth and she realizes her tongue is pinched between her bottom lip and her teeth – it’s always had a mind of its own, that tongue.

The Doctor’s head dips closer, his hips pushing forward at the same time his mouth meets hers. A soft brush, gentle and eager, the stubble on his chin scratching her skin. She draws back, lowers her head as her stomach flutters and her fingers curl against the back of his neck, fingernails sliding through his hair. 

“Rose,” he breathes against her temple. He sounds like home, he feels like it, too – tall and skinny, his trainers dirty white beside her platforms on the flashing blue dance floor beneath them.

She looks up at him again. “Doctor,” she replies, so softly that he couldn’t possibly have heard her over The Ramones.

The corners of his mouth lift, and she tugs the back of his neck, comes up onto her toes in her platform heels, and kisses him again. Open mouths, and tongues, and neither of them is bothering with the pretense of dancing any more. She’s the one mussing up his hair, tugging and cupping his head; his arms gradually slide around her torso until she’s wrapped up in him. The dance floor has dropped out from under them and they’re falling, tumbling through space, the strobe lights flashing like stars. 

In the morning, in his hotel room, he stretches out on the bed with his hands behind his head and stares at her. She’s propped up on her elbow beside him, playing with his tie – the only article of clothing he’s managed to keep on since they stumbled through the door together hours ago. Her bare thigh stretches across his legs, her body warm and buzzing and the taste of him still on her tongue.

“I’m flying out to Singapore on business in a few hours,” he says, lifting an eyebrow. His adam’s apple bobs, long neck straining around his next words. “You could … come with me.”

It’s a quiet invitation, meant to be flippant, but laden with need he can’t completely disguise, not even when he shrugs and nonchalantly adds, “If you want.”


End file.
